by H. Y. Hanna
“I don’t know… I think I heard that Ursula’s mobile phone was missing?” said Poppy. “I was with Mrs Peabody, helping to calm Muriel Farnsworth, when the police came to ask her about it. They couldn’t find it anywhere.”
“Mobile phone thieves don’t go around stabbing people,” said Nell scornfully. “The police are barking up the wrong tree. I’m telling you, this wasn’t an unfortunate accident from a robbery-gone-wrong; this was a deliberate murder.”
“But you said yourself—everyone loved Ursula, so who would want to kill her?”
“Ah…” Nell’s eyes gleamed. “Well, you know they say there’s a thin line between love and hate.”
Poppy groaned. “Don’t tell me—you think this was a crime of passion.”
“Why not?” said Nell. “Maybe it was a jealous ex-lover or… a frustrated wannabe-lover.”
Poppy did roll her eyes this time. Her old friend was an avid reader of romance novels and seemed to spend half her time imagining melodramatic interpretations of real-life situations.
“Don’t you roll your eyes, dear!” said Nell tartly. “There’s a lot of gossip in the village about Ursula and Norman, you know.”
“Norman? Norman the antique dealer? The man I hit—er, I mean, the man who was knocked out by accident?”
Nell nodded. “He’s been mooning after Ursula for years. He’s always finding excuses to visit Duxton House and taking little antique curios to her as gifts… Everyone thinks it’s rather pathetic.”
“But if he’s in love with her, why would he want to kill her?”
“Well, maybe he saw her with another man and flew into a jealous rage… or maybe he confessed his feelings and she laughed at him… or…or—” Nell’s eyes gleamed as she warmed to her subject, “—maybe he was so overcome by passion that he tried to grab her and kiss her, and when she rejected him, he became furious and decided that if he couldn’t have her, then nobody would!”
Poppy burst out laughing. She thought of the weedy, balding man she had met earlier that day. She had trouble imagining him overcome with passion, never mind forcing himself on a woman or killing someone in a jealous rage. Norman Smalle hadn’t seemed strong enough to stab a piece of cake with a fork!
“What’s so funny?” asked Nell, looking slightly annoyed.
“Oh Nell, this is real life—not one of your romance novels! Besides, how can you assume that his feelings were unrequited? Maybe Ursula liked him too.” Poppy raised her eyebrows. “In fact, I’m surprised that the village gossips don’t already know that.”
“Well, apparently Ursula was always a very private person. She’s nice to everyone, you know, so it’s hard to tell if she favours anyone in particular. She was always very kind to Norman, even when he’s being a bit of a nuisance… She just had such a compassionate heart.”
“Yeah, I only met her briefly and I noticed that,” said Poppy, thinking of the patient way Ursula had treated the hysterical Sonia. She said with sudden fervour, “I really hope they find her killer. She was a lovely lady and she deserved so much better.”
“They certainly won’t if they keep on following that silly theory of theirs,” said Nell. “You mark my words: Ursula wasn’t killed by a random criminal, she was murdered by someone who knew her.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning felt strangely anticlimactic after the drama and excitement of the previous day and Poppy lingered over breakfast, wondering what to do with herself. She had originally planned to go over to Duxton House and start work on the canine scent garden, but she had received a message first thing that morning saying that the meeting had been cancelled. It was understandable, of course, given Ursula’s death, and now she didn’t know if Muriel Farnsworth still wanted to go ahead with the project.
Poppy’s heart sank slightly at the thought of losing the lucrative contract. She had been delighted to have a new gardening job lined up—and it had sounded fun too! In fact, she had been so excited at the thought of designing and creating a canine scent garden that she had spent several hours last night poring over her garden books again, as well as doing some research online. And she’d been pleased to find several of the recommended scented plants right here at Hollyhock Cottage, such as meadowsweet for arthritis and thyme to help skin irritations—
An indignant cry broke into her thoughts. Poppy looked up, startled. It had sounded like Nell… She sprang up from her chair and hurried through to the greenhouse extension at the rear of the cottage. The door that led into the back garden was open, and through it she could see Nell staring aghast at something. She rushed out to join her friend.
“What is it, Nell?” she asked.
“Ooh… those blasted boys!” fumed Nell. “If I ever get my hands on them—!”
Poppy followed the direction of her gaze and saw that someone had spray-painted ugly graffiti onto the outside wall of the cottage. The stone surface was now covered in lurid pink paint which depicted male genitals in gross detail.
“Ugh!” cried Poppy. “That’s awful!”
“It’s that dreadful gang of teenage boys,” said Nell. “I heard the other ladies complaining about them in the village. They’ve been sneaking about, causing all sorts of damage to the houses and shops. It’s driving the residents crazy. They never had this kind of trouble in the village before, you know. Bunnington is still the kind of place where most of the residents leave their back doors unlocked.”
“It’s probably the summer holidays,” said Poppy. “Kids are bored and looking for stuff to amuse themselves.”
“I don’t care what they are!” said Nell. “That’s no excuse for vandalism! Their parents ought to have taught them better.” She sighed and looked at the graffiti again. “Well, I suppose it could have been worse. At least it’s at the back and not the front, so visitors won’t see it as soon as they arrive.”
“Yes, this would really ruin the ‘pretty cottage garden’ ambience,” said Poppy with a grimace.
Nell began rolling up her sleeves as she headed back into the cottage. “I’d better get some soap and water, and see if I can scrub it off…”
Poppy followed her. “I’ll help you, if you like. It’s not as if I have much else to do this morning…” she added in a dejected tone.
Nell glanced at her. “Are you worrying about the garden business again, dear?”
Poppy sighed. “Yes, sort of. I mean, I have a better idea what to do with the nursery now after talking to Mrs Peabody yesterday—in fact, I rang one of my grandmother’s suppliers this morning and put in an order of winter bedding plants! But I’ve still got to figure out a way to bring in some money while I’m waiting for them to grow big enough to sell.” She sighed again. “I was so happy when I got the new gardening job from Muriel Farnsworth yesterday, but now that’s all up in the air because of the murder…”
“You know, dear, you could use the flowers in the garden.”
Poppy looked up in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“There were so many people admiring your arrangement at the fête yesterday and I’m sure a lot of them would gladly pay for something similar. You could make up flower arrangements from the cottage garden and sell them to local homes and businesses.” Nell smiled proudly. “And you do have a wonderful touch with the flowers. Your arrangement looked so beautiful and professional—but also had a lovely, fresh, home-made look which feels so much more special than a fancy bouquet from a commercial florist.”
Poppy smiled, flattered and pleased. “But… but I don’t have any florist training—”
“That doesn’t matter! No one is going to demand to see your qualifications before they buy a bunch of flowers from you, are they, dear? As long as they think it looks pretty—that’s all that matters.”
“Hmm…” Poppy considered the idea. Selling cut flowers had never been in her plans—she had always thought she would just re-open the nursery and sell plants, like her grandmother had done. But in fact, she remembered now that her grandmoth
er did have a cutting patch and the original sign outside the gate had read: “HOLLYHOCK COTTAGE & GARDENS: Garden Nursery and Fresh Cut Flowers”. And besides, even if her grandmother hadn’t done this, it didn’t mean that she couldn’t branch out, do things differently. She could strike her own path. Especially if it would help to bring in some ready income…
She smiled at Nell. “You know, maybe that’s not such a bad idea. I could make up a poster and stick it on the village community board outside the post office.”
“You could also get some leaflets printed and drop them directly into people’s homes and offices,” Nell suggested. “You just need to walk around the village and stick them into post boxes.”
“Yes, I’ll do that!” said Poppy, her enthusiasm growing. “And maybe I’ll donate some arrangements to places where lots of people can see them, as a form of free advertising...” She hugged her friend impulsively. “Oh Nell, I think it could work!”
“Of course it will work,” said Nell placidly, leading the way back to the kitchen. “Now, before I forget—I wanted you to taste these Chelsea buns and tell me what you think. Too much cinnamon? Or lemon zest?”
Poppy realised belatedly that there was a wonderful, delicious smell of fresh baking wafting through the kitchen and, as she watched Nell take a large baking tray out of the oven, she realised that her friend had been busy. Her eyes widened, though, when she saw the number of buns on the tray.
“My goodness, Nell—we’re never going to eat all that!” she protested.
“They’ll keep for a few days,” said Nell. Then she added nonchalantly, “Besides, I thought that Dr Noble next door might like to have some.”
Poppy tried to hide her surprise. Nell and Bertie’s first meeting hadn’t got off to a great start (she still wasn’t sure if Nell had forgiven Bertie for bringing his pet laboratory rat along when he’d come over for tea)—and she thought that Nell had remained suspicious and hostile towards the eccentric inventor. So the last thing she’d expected was for Nell to offer him some home baking! Some of what Poppy was thinking must have shown on her face because Nell said defensively:
“Well, he is all alone in that ramshackle house next door, with no one to take care of him, and I’m sure—left to his own devices—he would never eat properly. Since I was baking anyway, I thought… well, it was easy just to make a bit more.”
Poppy smiled and gave her old friend another hug. “That’s really sweet of you, Nell—I’m sure Bertie will appreciate it. You’re right, he gets so engrossed when he’s deep in one of his experiments that he probably completely forgets about his meals. It will be lovely for him to have some ready-baked goodies to munch on.”
Poppy reached for one of the Chelsea buns and bit into the soft, chewy roll embedded with juicy raisins and sultanas, and scented with cinnamon and mixed spices. The sweet, sugary glaze on the bun was offset by the tangy tartness of the lemon zest rolled into the dough, and the whole combination was absolutely delicious.
“Mind that little dog of his doesn’t get hold of any, though,” Nell added as she transferred several buns onto a separate plate. “There are raisins and sultanas in these and they’re poisonous to dogs.”
“Mm-hmm… okay,” said Poppy with her mouth full. “I’ll pop over and take these to Bertie now.”
A few minutes later, Poppy stepped out of the garden gate and into the lane outside Hollyhock Cottage. To her left, the lane ran past Nick’s large Georgian-style house and continued on towards the village green and the high street where the shops were congregated. Poppy turned in the opposite direction—to her right—where the lane ended in a cul-de-sac and where a small property beyond Hollyhock Cottage held a shabby house and garden. That was where Bertie lived and, in fact, Poppy usually took the shortcut through a large gap in the stone wall between the two properties, but today, as she was carrying a plate heaped with buns, she decided to take the orthodox route.
Pushing the garden gate open, Poppy hurried down the short path to the front door and rang the bell. Normally Einstein would have barked to sound the alarm as soon as he heard anyone on the front porch, but today the house was strangely silent. She wondered if Bertie might have gone out and was just turning away when the door was opened by the inventor himself.
“Poppy! How lovely to see you, my dear. You weren’t leaving already?”
“Oh… I thought you weren’t at home,” said Poppy, stepping into the house. “Normally Einstein barks—” She broke off as she caught sight of the scruffy black terrier on the floor in the sitting room. He looked nothing like his usual perky self, though. He didn’t dance on his hind legs or beg for a biscuit or do any of his other usual antics. Instead, he lay with his chin on the floor, his eyes dull and his ears drooping, and barely even twitched his tail when Poppy went over to say hello.
“Einstein just hasn’t been himself since we got back from the fête yesterday,” said Bertie, scratching his head. “I don’t know what is wrong with him. He won’t eat or play or do any of the things he’s normally interested in. Perhaps I ought to take him to the vet tomorrow. I wonder if he’s sickening for something…”
Poppy eyed the terrier. Poor thing… She suspected that he was suffering from a broken heart.
“I think Einstein’s ailment started when he fell head over paws for a certain white toy poodle,” she said with a laugh.
“Yes, well, that was terribly naughty of him to rush up to that lady and her poodle like that,” said Bertie, tutting. “He was really not himself yesterday. He doesn’t normally run off all the time. He was even doing it before we arrived at the fête.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he chewed a hole in his leash and ran off as we were on our way to Duxton House. We took the shortcut, you see, which comes out near the woods at the back of the estate. I would never have caught Einstein if that nice young man with the red sports car hadn’t helped me.” He inhaled suddenly. “My dear! What is that wonderful smell?”
“Oh, I nearly forgot—I brought these for you, Bertie. Nell made them,” Poppy explained, holding up the plate of buns.
The old inventor’s eyes lit up. “Chelsea buns! How delightful! I was just about to have some tea—would you like a cup?”
“Thanks, that sounds great.”
Left alone, Poppy was about to sit on the sofa when she heard a familiar feline voice and, a minute later, an orange-striped head popped around the side of the still-open front door. It was Oren. Poppy was surprised to see the ginger tomcat. There had been an ongoing battle between cat and dog ever since she’d first arrived in Bunnington—in fact, Oren and Einstein seemed to have a new round of skirmishes at least once a day. Usually Oren got the upper hand but, like a typical terrier, Einstein refused to admit defeat and launched himself into combat with fresh fervour every time he saw his feline neighbour.
Their fights usually took place in the Hollyhock Cottage gardens, though, which were conveniently sandwiched between their respective houses, and Poppy had never seen Oren on Bertie’s property before. The ginger tom looked like he was searching for something. His whiskers quivered, scenting the air, as he prowled cautiously down the hallway and into the sitting room. Then his eyes lit up as he saw Einstein and he puffed up to twice his size, all his fur standing on end.
“N-OW!” he said gleefully, eyeing his old foe.
Einstein glanced up, then sighed and put his chin down on his paws again.
Oren stopped, confused. He tried again, hissing and puffing himself up even bigger than before. “N-OW?”
No response.
The ginger tom stalked over and glared at Einstein. “N-owwww?” he demanded.
Nothing.
Oren strutted back and forth, lashing his tail and flexing his claws. He even went up and prodded the terrier with a paw.
“N-ow? N-OW?” said Oren, starting to sound desperate.
Einstein sighed deeply and turned his head the other way.
“H-ow? H-ow?” said Oren, look
ing bewildered.
Poppy laughed. “Oren… I think you’ve got competition. And it’s a glamorous female no less.”
The ginger tom stomped off and jumped up onto the windowsill, where he curled up with his front paws tucked under his chest and fixed Einstein with a baleful glare. Poppy chuckled again, then, wondering if Bertie needed a hand, went to the kitchen to find him. She found the old inventor busily preparing two mugs on the kitchen counter, whilst the kettle whistled on the stove behind him.
“Here, I’ll get the hot water,” Poppy offered, starting towards the stove. Then she stopped and nearly tripped, trying to avoid stepping on the slimy brown pile on the floor.
“Eeuw! Bertie, I think Einstein had an accident indoors,” she cried.
He glanced down. “Oh no—that’s my Dog Poo Transmitter.”
Poppy gaped at him. “Your what?”
He smiled widely. “It’s one of my latest inventions. I’ve been commissioned by the British government, you see, to develop an arsenal of espionage tools with superior—”
“You work for the British government?” Poppy said, looking at him incredulously.
“Oh, for many years now… just as a consultant, of course. MI6 usually, although I occasionally consult on projects for MI5. I like working with the spooks better, though,” Bertie added in a confidential tone. “Nothing like knowing your invention is helping British intelligence abroad!”
More like wreaking havoc abroad, thought Poppy. She was amazed that any government agency would let Bertie near their equipment, but perhaps the old inventor had a serious side that she didn’t know of. After all, he had once been a professor and head of a department at Oxford University…
She realised that Bertie was still speaking and hurriedly turned her attention back to him:
“…most common spy cameras and audio bug devices are far too easily detected and recognised, so MI6 have tasked me with designing some innovative upgrades.”
Poppy glanced down again. “And you’ve come up with dog poo.”
“Ah, well, you see, the brilliant thing about canine faeces is that they are a global phenomenon,” said Bertie enthusiastically. “You find dog poo everywhere, in every country and every society.” He paused, his forehead puckering. “Well, except for Japan, perhaps—that country is disturbingly clean and orderly… hmm… yes, I will have to come up with an alternative for the Far East agents…” He brightened again. “But almost everywhere else, dog poo is something that no one would look twice at. Nor is it something that people would want to touch or handle if they can help it, so it really is the perfect disguise for an audio transmitter or even a micro camera…” He reached down and scooped up the pile of turds, shoving it proudly towards Poppy. “Isn’t the detail marvellous? Oh, don’t worry—it is perfectly fine to handle. It is all plastic polymers. I am most impressed with the advances they have made in 3D printing. It looks remarkably realistic, doesn’t it?”
